


Bad Date Bingo

by rhysiana



Series: Bad Date Bingo [1]
Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Blind Date, Fluff, Food, Hiking, Kent is a giant dork, M/M, Overly helpful teammates, Passing mention of real hockey players, Self-indulgent reminiscing about Latin America, Vegas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-26
Updated: 2016-06-26
Packaged: 2018-07-18 01:51:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7294720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rhysiana/pseuds/rhysiana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kent comes out. The team takes it surprisingly well.</p><p>Perhaps too well, honestly.</p><p>In which Kent is showered in blind dates by his team. A bunch of times when it goes wrong, and once when it goes right.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bad Date Bingo

**Author's Note:**

  * For [weird_situation](https://archiveofourown.org/users/weird_situation/gifts).



> For weird_situation, who cursed Kent with twenty blind dates and a betting pool.
> 
> Beta by M, who has taken my foray into fic writing with remarkable grace, and @storiesfromtheden, who is now maybe a little in love with my OMC.
> 
> Thanks to des-zimbits/staranise for the loan of Kent's teammate Grumpowski, who serves here as a gruffer Johnson.

Kent comes out. The team takes it surprisingly well.

Perhaps too well, honestly.

Jack is laughing at him.

“Shut up,” Kent mutters into the phone he’s trying to hold between his shoulder and ear as he struggles to open a new bag of cat food. He gives up and sets the phone on the counter. “Hold on, I’ve gotta switch you to speaker.”

“Honestly, Kenny, can you hear yourself? You do realize you’re complaining because your teammates are being _too_ supportive.”

“Look, you’re not the one being buried in blind date offers. I really should have thought this through more before I came out. Made sure I already had a boyfriend waiting in the wings.”

“Would have been a good plan, yeah.” Jack sounds entirely too smug now.

“Shut up,” Kent repeats. “Why do I even talk to you?”

“Probably because I actually understand you,” Jack says more seriously.

Kent sighs. “Yeah, I know.” He finally gets the stupid dry cat food open and scoops a tiny scoop into Kit’s bowl. She glares at him regally from the top of the fridge, not seeming terribly impressed by the valiant battle he just fought against what was surely an excessive amount of glue. “Ugh. New topic! What are you and Bittle doing this weekend? Regale me with tales of your blissfully happy gay life, so I can remember why I thought this was worth it.”

Jack obliges. Kent doesn’t think about any of his prospective blind dates for the rest of the conversation.

***

“Did you call him yet?”

“If you don’t lay the hell off me, I’m going to start calling you ‘Mother Hen’ instead of Henny, I swear to god.”

“My sister swears he’s really nice!”

“I believe you! I’ll call him after practice!”

“We’ve got ten minutes before we have to be on the ice. Do it now.”

If looks could kill, Kent is absolutely sure there’d be an arrest warrant out for him right now. Sadly, Henny is still standing in front of him, hale and hearty, looking annoyingly helpful. “Fine,” Kent grumbles, and digs out his phone.

“Hi, is this… Dennis? This is Kent. Uh, Kent Parson? My teammate’s sister is apparently trying to set us up on a date?... Yeah, that’s her…. How’s tomorrow?... Sounds great. I’ll meet you there…. Yeah, of course, looking forward to it…. Okay, bye.”

He glares at Henny. “There, are you happy?”

“Ecstatic. Let’s go.”

“Yes, let’s.” At least on the ice Kent can make them all do suicides if they try to ask him obnoxious dating questions. But he can feel some part of him fluttering in eager anticipation. This is really happening now!

***

The eager anticipation turns out to just be the universe toying with him. Dinner with Dennis is… awkward, to say the least.

“Omigosh, hi! You really are Kent Parson!”

Kent goes for his self-depricating smile, the one that distracts and disarms reporters. “Yup, that’s me.”

“Wow,” Dennis breathes.

Kent tries again. “So tell me a little bit about yourself. I really didn’t get much from Henny.”

“Oh, I’m sure I’m super boring compared to the people you hang out with all the time. Your last game was so great!” And then Kent is treated to an in-depth analysis of his own plays. Every attempt to change the topic fails. The only thing Kent learns about Dennis, other than his love of hockey statistics, is that he’s allergic to cats.

Kent does not feel this is an auspicious start.

***

“Oh, hey, you’re shorter than I expected. Guess the skates add some height, huh?”

***

“Yo, Parser, I hear you like to party! Wanna join me in some pre-gaming before we hit the clubs?”

***

“Wow, you’re not nearly as big as I thought. Those pads must add a lot of bulk.”

***

“What’s Sidney Crosby really like?”

***

“What’s Jack Zimmermann really like?”

***

“Is it true that Benn and Seguin are banging?”

***

“Could you sign my jersey? And just, like, a few other things?”

***

Kent is beginning to think his natural optimism is simply not up to the task of dating while famous.

“I swear, Jack, this is worse than I expected. How hard is it to just have a conversation like two normal people?”

“You’re hardly normal.”

“Yeah, well, how would any of them know? I just get the same hockey-related questions every time. I might as well be giving interviews, except now the reporters want to literally fuck me, too.”

He hears Bitty splutter a laugh from the other end of the line. “You should make a bingo card.”

“Ooooh, you’re right, I totally should!”

“A bingo card?” Jack asks, confused.

“Bad Date Bingo! Every time his date says something on the card, he gets to fill in a space. If he gets five in a row, he gets… I dunno, Kent, what’s your prize?”

“A night to spend by myself in peace and quiet?”

“Good luck explaining that to your team.”

“Yeah, Tater told me he heard from Andrei they have a betting pool now on who will be the one to find you the perfect date,” Jack adds.

“They what?!” Kent is not as shocked as he’s pretending. It’s Vegas, after all. There’s a betting pool for everything. “Hmmm, maybe I should see if I can find a way to win the pool myself…”

“So you’re gonna get out there and find yourself a date?” Bitty says. He’s much too chipper.

“Ugh. Never mind.”

***

You must work out a lot!

| 

Immediate hugging

| 

Drunk

| 

Not as big as I thought

| 

Can you sign my…?  
  
---|---|---|---|---  
  
Living in Vegas must be so great

| 

Hand on thigh

| 

Salary

| 

Who's your most famous friend?

| 

Excessive fawning  
  
Shorter than I thought

| 

Did you really date...?

| 

General weirdness

| 

Bathroom blowjob offer

| 

Attempt to invite himself over  
  
Are Benn & Seguin really hooking up?

| 

What's Sid like?

| 

What's Jack like?

| 

Threesome offer

| 

Stats junkie  
  
Can I get a selfie?

| 

I can't wait to tell my friends!

| 

How many teeth have you lost?

| 

Wanna go back to my place?

| 

Allergic to cats  
  
***

“I dunno, Kent, I think you manipulated these columns in your favor. I don’t believe this is a random distribution,” Bitty chirps. Jack is at some charity event, so Kent and Bitty are Facetiming while Bitty measures and stirs things, performing his usual kitchen alchemy. Kent is hoping he might get some sympathy cookies if he sounds pitiful enough.

“Yeah, well, you’re not the one who has to go on all these dates. I’m not above manipulating my own damn bingo board if it means I get to take a night off.”

“Have you seriously had more than one bathroom blowjob offer?”

“You’d be surprised,” Kent confirms darkly.

“Wow. Stay classy, Vegas.”

“Kit is getting jealous, I can tell. She’s going to start plotting to murder me in my sleep because I haven’t been worshiping her enough.”

“Poor Kit. And how is Her Highness today?”

Kent obligingly turns the camera on his gorgeous cat and encourages her to preen. She graciously accepts Bitty’s cooing from Providence as her due. It’s the best night Kent’s had in what feels like ages.

***

Grump corners him in the locker room the next day.

“Grumpowski,” Kent says cautiously, nodding at him. There’s no point in being anything but terse with Grump. He doesn’t do communication in any other form.

“Got you a date.” He hands Kent a slip of paper. “Meet him outside the rink tomorrow after morning skate.”

“Tomorrow’s skate is optional. Why’d you assume I’d be here?”

Grump just gives him a scathing look and moves back to his stall to finish dressing.

Fair enough. Kent’s not actually sure when he last missed an optional skate. Maybe that time he had the flu… Well, at least this date has already been arranged for him. Saves him one more awkward phone call.

***

Kent is honestly still more focused on evaluating his new rookie’s strengths and weaknesses as he leaves morning skate, but he’s wearing a nice v-neck t-shirt in a shade of sage green he knows makes both his eyes and hair look good. It’s not like he _wants_ to be single for the rest of his life. He glances at the piece of paper Grump gave him to remind himself of the guy’s name before he hits the crash bar on the exit door.

He slides on his shades as the excessively bright Vegas sun hits him. His hand twitches toward his hat, too, but his hair doesn’t need any more encouragement to look like a disaster, and apparently he still has enough hope left to want to make a good impression. When he spots the guy leaning against the railing near the players’ entrance, he’s immediately grateful to whatever power managed to preserve that last scrap of optimism, because this guy is _smokin’_. Not that Kent’s shallow or anything (okay, maybe he is), but damn. Beautifully warm skin a much deeper shade of tan than Kent can ever manage, even at the height of summer; gorgeous dark curls tumbling everywhere; brown eyes that appear to be positively sparkling with amusement… Kent is running out of sufficiently positive adjectives. _Down, boy_ , he tells himself.

“Benjamin?” he asks, holding out his hand. “I’m Kent.”

The guy smiles as he takes Kent’s hand, revealing bright white teeth and, goddammit, yes, a dimple. “Close. It’s actually ‘Ben-ha-meen’.”

“Oh, dude, I’m so sorry! Grump just handed me a piece of paper with your name written on it and said ‘meet him after practice.’ Apparently he’s too lazy for diacritics.” Kent can feel his face reddening further by the second. Did he really just bust out “diacritics”? Where is his trademark chill now?

“Nah, it’s fine,” Benjamín replies easily. “Happens every time someone sees my name written instead of spoken first. I’m sure my parents thought they were being helpful by giving me a ‘cross-cultural’ name, but I’m used to it. You ready?”

“Uh, sure. Should we take my car, or…?”

“Nope, I’ve got it all covered! Grump said you’d probably appreciate a break from having to plan anything.”

“He… did?” Kent trails Benjamín across the parking lot to a small but tidy SUV.

“More observant than he looks, isn’t he? Here, just toss your stuff in the back seat.”

“Yeah…” Kent is starting to feel a little whiplashed. This isn’t going anything like he expected, and he is feeling weirdly okay with that. Relaxing into the passenger seat, he decides to set all expectations aside for the rest of the afternoon and see where this takes him.

Benjamín glances over to check that Kent is belted in, then pulls out of the parking lot with a clear destination in mind. The stereo had come on when the car did, and Kent is pleasantly surprised to find he’s enjoying the music, which is upbeat, with a definite driving rhythm, and absolutely no words that he can understand. Benjamín is tapping along on the steering wheel.

“What are we listening to?” Kent asks.

“Huh? Oh, I can turn it off if you want.” Kent is distressed to see a slight frown forming on Benjamín’s brow.

“No! I like it, I just don’t recognize it.”

“Oh! It’s Carlos Vives. He was big in Costa Rica when I was down there a while ago and I picked up a CD because it was clear I was going to get his songs stuck in my head constantly anyway. Safer to have them on hand so I can play them all the way through and stop the cycle, you know?”

“Totally. I mean, not with this specifically, because I have functionally zero Spanish, but needing to play songs all the way through, I get it.”

“Spanish not exactly a language you need for hockey, huh?” Benjamín says casually as he signals a lane change, no judgment in his tone.

Kent smiles and relaxes some more. “Not so much. I can do English, Québécois French, and enough Russian to embarrass myself. Thank god the Scandinavian guys all seem to speak English before they get to me. I haven’t got the first clue about Swedish. Someone told me it’s fucking tonal.”

“Do all hockey players make an effort to speak all those languages?”

“Oh, uh, well, I’m the captain of the team, so I kind of figure I need to be able to make the new guys feel at home. And know when they’re cursing each other out. There’re some things I will _not_ allow, no matter what language you say them in. Plus, it’s good to know how to yell at them in their first coach’s language. Snaps ’em into action before they even know it.” Kent looks over at Benjamín and grins.

“Practical! I like it.” He’s signaling a turn again, and Kent looks around, trying to figure out where they’re going.

“Do I get a hint about what we’re doing?”

“You get more than a hint!” Benjamín points to a sign that has just come into view: RED ROCK CANYON. “Hiking. But first,” he gestures toward to back of the car, “food.”

Kent tamps down his instinctively negative reaction, because he’s never gotten over his initial dislike of how dead and sere everything looks in the Vegas desert, and reminds himself that Benjamín seems nice and funny (and _hot_ ) and he already resolved to go along with whatever he wants to do for the afternoon. So he just shrugs nonchalantly and says, “I’m game.”

Benjamín’s mouth quirks like maybe Kent wasn’t as good at hiding his initial reaction as he thought. “Well, I’m going to hold out hope for a little more than you just being a good sport. I promise, it’ll be fun. You might want to bring a hat, though.”

Kent blinks. He’s pretty sure no one has told him to _put on_ a hat in years. “Take that stupid thing off” he may hear on a daily basis, though. _Shut up, brain, I am not going to fall for a guy just because he encouraged to me to wear A HAT._

Benjamín pulls into a parking spot near the visitor’s center and hops out of the car. Kent gives himself a brisk mental shake and climbs out. He opens the rear passenger door to grab his trademark snapback from his hockey bag. When he shuts the door, Benjamín is waiting for him with a bag slung over his shoulder and a map in his hand.

“Do I need to bring anything?” Kent asks.

“Nope, I’ve got you covered,” Benjamín replies. He holds out the map. “I know where I think we should go, but I figured you might like to have some idea.” He points to a figure-8 of two connecting loop trails near the visitor’s center. “We can take the Moenkopi Loop to a nice view to eat lunch, and then we can finish the rest of the 8.” He shrugs, looking slightly embarrassed. “It’s not exactly the most strenuous hike here, but I figured that wasn’t really the point of today.”

Kent smiles. This is already more thought than anyone else has put into a date with him, ever. “Sounds good to me. Lead the way!” He gestures dramatically ahead.

Benjamín laughs. “C’mon. It’s not far. I know you must be hungry.”

They fall quiet as they walk, but it’s not awkward. Kent takes the time to look around and is surprised at how… not-ugly it all looks. “You know,” he says thoughtfully, “I’ve been living in Vegas for nearly eight years now, and I had no idea this place was so close.”

“It’s one of my favorite places. It gets better, too. Look.” Benjamín reaches out and casually hooks Kent’s forearm, pulling him closer so he can sight down Benjamín’s pointing arm. “Aren’t the colors in the cliffs amazing?”

Kent’s breath catches in his chest, and it’s not because of the cliffs. “Yeah,” he manages, faintly.

“Let’s eat here,” Benjamín says. He sets the bag on the ground at his feet and pulls out a picnic blanket. “Sit, sit. I told you, I got you covered.”

Kent obediently settles himself on the ground, stretching one leg out in front of him as he watches Benjamín continue to pull things out of the bag like a magician. He catches the bottle of water Benjamín tosses him and feels absurdly pleased with himself for not fumbling it. Oh man, this is bad. So bad.

“I quizzed Grump about whether you had any food allergies, and he couldn’t think of any, but let me know if he was wrong so I can slap your hands away from anything you shouldn’t eat.” Food is materializing on the blanket in front of Kent, and none of it bears a store label.

“Did you make all this?” Kent asks incredulously.

“Wow, Grump seriously didn't tell you anything about me, did he?”

“Nope, just handed me that piece of paper, like I said.”

Benjamín snorts. “Grump. Yes, I made all the food. I’m a chef.” He shrugs as he continues to arrange things. “It’s no trouble. I end up making it anyway, so I learned a long time ago to share or the fridge will fill up faster than I can eat things. And now I get paid to do it. Anyway, I promise nothing here will be too far off your diet plan.”

Kent looks curiously at the dough-pocket-looking things in front of him. “They’re not… pasties, are they? I haven’t had one of those since Henny’s mom sent him some from Michigan last year.”

Benjamín looks pleased that Kent even ventured a guess. “Close! Ish. They’re empanadas, which are essentially South American pasties. Every country makes theirs differently, so there’s a bunch of different kinds. This one,” he points, “is my classic Chilean, with ground beef and potatoes and hard-boiled egg. This one is based on one I had in Peru with just cheese and tomato, and this one… doesn’t really have an origin anymore? I just started making things up after a while. It has spinach and cheese. Maybe I should call it Greek. Anyway, I like them for hiking because they’re self-contained. Plus some fruit and dessert, but that’s a surprise.”

“Wow,” Kent says, reminding himself not to let his mouth hang open in awe. He gives himself a mental slap. “Uh, yeah, no food allergies. I’ll try them all.”

Benjamín smiles brilliantly. Kent is doomed.

Doubly so after he tries the “classic Chilean” and can’t stop himself from groaning over how good it is. He blushes and swallows hastily. “So why do you call this one your classic?”

Benjamín is sitting cross-legged across from him, looking both totally at ease and holding himself with better posture than anyone sitting on the ground should be able to manage. “Ah, it was my first perfected recipe.” He starts gesturing with his hands as he speaks. “My parents are from Chile, so all our family is still there. We would go back to visit every year when I was growing up. One of my first memories, or at least one of my first food memories, is complaining about how bland the food at Tía Carolina’s house was, and my mother shushing me.” He laughs.

“This isn’t bland!” Kent protests.

“No, exactly. It was my mother’s own fault anyway; she’d raised me in the Southwest, land of Tex-Mex and spicy food. I had an American’s expectation of what South American food should be. Chile is… very different. As I recall, my tía had served humitas that night, and, god, they still make me gag.”

Kent’s mouth is full again, so he just raises an inquiring eyebrow.

“Humitas are, like, packets of corn meal wrapped up in a corn husk,” Benjamín explains, miming folding and tying up a little bundle, “which are then boiled. And then you open them up, top the mush with tomatoes and _sugar_ , of all things, and eat it. I really don’t understand why it’s so popular. Maybe my family just had a particularly terrible way of preparing it. But it was so bad I’ve never even looked into trying to improve it.” He shudders dramatically. “Anyway, the next night my mom made sure to get my grandmother to make empanadas, _these_ empanadas, and Chilean food was immediately redeemed in my eyes. My mom swears that’s when I got so interested in food in general. And now, here I am.”

Kent doesn’t want him to stop talking. “You said you got another one from Peru?”

“Oh, yeah, after I finished at CIA, I backpacked around and collected recipe ideas. I got the cheese and tomato one from a roadside stand on my way to Machu Picchu. It’s nothing fancy, but it always reminds me of the first time I ate it, so I keep it on the menu for nostalgia value.”

“Oh man, that sounds amazing. I can’t even imagine getting to travel like that.”

“What do you mean? You guys travel all the time.”

“Yeah, but just for hockey. I was drafted by the Aces when I was barely 18 and I’ve been doing this ever since. You name a hockey-playing country, I’ve been there, but I can almost guarantee you it was for a game or a promo thing. The last time I went anywhere for myself, it was just to go home to New York.”

“You’re from New York? Where?”

Kent, native New Yorker that he is, immediately names his borough and cross-streets before he reminds himself ( _again_ ) that not everyone assumes “New York” means “New York City.” He starts to correct himself, but Benjamín is nodding. “Cool. I think I know some of the restaurants around there.”

“You know it?” Kent asks, surprised.

“Yeah, I went to the CIA in New York. I know the locations in California or Texas would have been closer to home, but I figured I’d try something different. Er, Culinary Institute of America, I mean. Not the spies.”

Kent grins. “I figured. I have a friend who cooks—well, bakes—so I do actually know the difference.”

Benjamín brightens. “Nice! I’ve apparently alarmed several people who overheard me talking about the knives I got at the CIA.”

Kent bursts out laughing. “I wish I could have seen their faces!”

“You don’t think I make a convincing spy?” Benjamín asks, squinting and running his fingers along his jaw in an attempt to look mysterious.

“Maybe an assassin. I know not to mess with the people who make the food.”

“An excellent point.” Benjamín surveys the remaining food. “Do you want any more? None of it is poisoned, I promise.”

Kent snags a banana and peels it, thinking only virtuous thoughts about potassium. “I believe I was promised dessert?”

“That you were!” Benjamín reaches back into the bag and brings out a Ziploc that appears to be full of cookies. “Alfajores,” he announces.

Kent leans forward, interested. “I don’t think I’ve ever had them before. What are they? I mean, aside from cookies.”

“Basically a cookie sandwich filled with dulce de leche, which I then dip in chocolate, because I hold no personal grudges against the Argentinians, despite family loyalty.”

Kent’s eyes widen in appreciation. “I’m pretty sure that’s not anywhere on my diet plan, and I definitely don’t care.” He takes a bite of one and this time doesn’t even attempt to hold back his groan, because these cookies _deserve it_.

He opens his eyes and catches a flush across Benjamín’s cheeks. Kent smiles to himself. The cookies aren’t the only thing that deserve it.

Benjamín clears his throat and starts gathering things up. “Shall we hike?”

“Sure.”

***

They walk the full figure-8 double loop. Benjamín appears to know all the best places to stop for views.

“You bring all your dates here?” Kent teases.

Benjamín looks startled. “Oh, no, never.”

It’s Kent’s turn to be surprised. “So why did you bring me?” he asks curiously.

Benjamín runs a hand through his curls and looks sheepish. “It was just… Grump was telling me how annoying things had been since you came out, and he’d heard about some of your other terrible dates, and I started to get all indignant? That clearly those other guys didn’t know how to take someone on a proper date? And then he basically challenged me to do it right.”

Kent feels oddly deflated. “So this was just a dare?”

“No! I mean, it’s still a blind date, so it’s not like we could really expect to know anything about each other beforehand, but, well, you’re not exactly a complete unknown. And I really did want to do something nice for you, even though I only knew you secondhand.” He glances sideways at Kent.

Kent waves it off. “It’s fine. You’re doing an excellent job making up for all those bad dates. You might even be getting me to change my opinion of the desert.”

“Yeah? We’ll have to come back and do one of the real hikes some other time!”

Kent’s deflated feeling is entirely banished. “Some other time” echoes in his head and he smiles.

“Oh! Grump told me you have a cat! Do you have any pictures?”

Doomed. Kent is utterly doomed. He gets out his phone to show off Kit’s Instagram account. Benjamín appears delighted.

Doomed.

***

Kent reviews the date in his head on the drive back to the arena:

Never brought up hockey. _check_

Took Kent for a private hike and picnic. _check_

Appeared genuinely interested in Kit. _check_

Asked Kent about his interests like he was a normal person. (They had talked about books! And music!) _check_

Benjamín pulls into one of the visitor spaces near the players’ entrance. Kent reaches over and catches the hand just leaving the gearshift. “I had a really great time today. Thank you.”

Benjamín tightens his fingers around Kent’s. “Me too. I meant it when I said we should do another hike sometime.”

Kent leans forward and lets go of Benjamín’s hand so he can finally push his fingers through those tantalizing dark curls and draw him over for a kiss. It’s perfect. _Check. Five in a row._ “Bingo,” he whispers.

Benjamín’s eyes flutter open. “What?”

“Yes. We should definitely go for another hike.”

Benjamín smiles and kisses him again.

**Author's Note:**

> -Is Kent's first Valentine's Day card for Benjamín a bingo board full of all the things Kent loves about him, with every space stamped? Yes.
> 
> -Does Benjamín share all of my opinions about Chilean food? Yes. I made myself super hungry writing the picnic scene. Alfajores are amazing. Humitas are terrible.
> 
> -Has Benjamín conveniently only traveled to placed I have been? Also yes. His Chilean family lives in Ñuñoa, just off of Irarrázaval. If you know where that is, you get a gold star!
> 
> -Furthermore, I stole his comment about his CIA knives from a college friend-of-a-friend. I have Frankensteined Kent the perfect man, and I'm not sorry. It's his birthday, after all.
> 
> -I also know all about their future life together, just FYI. If other people need excessively sappy Kent headcanons, I can provide. Edit: [Sappy future headcanons are now live!](http://rhysiana.tumblr.com/post/147242129653/bad-date-bingo)


End file.
